


The Citizens of Night Vale Official Bowling Team

by AugustaByron



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Big Rico's Pizza, Episode: e032 Yellow Helicopters, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Strexcorp, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think,” Cecil begins, in very serious tones, and Carlos leans forward to show that he cares, that he's interested, “that I need to restart my bowling league.” </p>
<p>-----</p>
<p>Night Vale goes to war against StrexCorp. Carlos doesn't really get what's happening, or why Steve Carlsberg is suddenly around all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Citizens of Night Vale Official Bowling Team

**Author's Note:**

> I have apparently lost control of my life, because this happened.

Cecil shows up to their date twenty minutes late, breathless, and still wearing his clothes from the station.

“Are you okay?” Carlos asks. Cecil smiles at him brilliantly, and as always Carlos has to blink away the impression that a single mouth should not have that many teeth. It stopped being unsettling a long time ago.

“I'm perfectly lovely,” Cecil says. He pulls out his chair and sits down. Carlos already ordered the pizza—they go to Big Rico's every Tuesday, and get the same thing, mushrooms and green peppers and sausage. It secretly thrills Carlos to have a routine, since everyone in Night Vale seems to think that routines are dangerous and get you killed.

Cecil is willing to make a routine with him.

Cecil is biting into a slice of the pizza savagely, and Carlos raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure you're okay?” Cecil doesn't come to dates in his work clothes. Carlos wouldn't mind if he did—the bowties, especially, are a nice touch.

“I'm _perfectly lovely_ ,” Cecil repeats, staring at Carlos with wide eyes. “How are you, dear Carlos?”

“I'm fine,” Carlos says. “There was that problem with the sunlight today, but it'll be interesting to chart why the sky goes dark sometimes. I just have to convince a few of my team to look at the hard data, but that--”

“No,” Cecil interrupts. “How _are_ you? Aren't you also just perfectly lovely?” He leans across the table, putting his elbow on his slice of pizza and getting tomato sauce all over his clean white sleeve. Carlos has a stain remover that will fix it, he uses it on his lab coats.

“Sure,” Carlos agrees, a little perturbed. “I had a good day.”

“A great day,” Cecil corrects. He's not blinking, just staring at Carlos earnestly. “You had a wonderful, glorious day, right? Everything in our little town is so much better now that StrexCorp has come to Night Vale.”

“I had a great day,” Carlos says slowly. This is—there are things Carlos doesn't understand, sometimes, about Night Vale. Not things like “why did gravity stop working in all public buildings for two hours” or “why is nobody concerned about the teenager who used to have two heads.” Things more along the lines of “my boyfriend is insane and I'd better go along with it.”

Cecil relaxes, slumping back into his chair. “That's good,” he says. “Great. That's great.” Then he falls silent for the rest of the meal.

This isn't too out of the ordinary—Cecil likes to listen to Carlos talk, and Carlos is still getting used to the idea that someone like Cecil likes him enough to let him ramble for two hours about the mechanics of time and space, and what Night Vale could mean for people suffering from quickly-progressing diseases.

But Cecil usually watches Carlos talk, rapt, and comments on things. He's been reading a lot of science-related books lately. Carlos has noticed the stack on his bedside table growing, shrinking, changing— _A Brief History of Time, Quantum Mechanics for Dummies,_ even _Origin of the Species._ He's been working _Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid_ for the whole time they've been dating. 

Tonight, though, Cecil stares off into the distance. He looks past Carlos's shoulder, fixes absentmindedly on other patrons of Big Rico's Pizza. Carlos tries to ignore it—everyone has off days. But at the end of the night, when they're parting at the door of the restaurant, he manages to ask again. 

“Is everything really okay? You seem off.” He hopes he isn't being a bother. Cecil puts up with a lot from Carlos, he doesn't want to add pestering to the list which already includes awkward and constantly unsure of when Cecil will wake up and realize Carlos isn't actually beautiful and smart and good. 

“I think,” Cecil begins, in very serious tones, and Carlos leans forward to show that he cares, that he's interested, “that I need to restart my bowling league.” 

And, well. That isn't exactly what Carlos expected to hear. 

\----- 

The Faceless Old Woman that lives in Carlos's house has rearranged all of his furniture. If by “rearranged” he meant “piled into a sort of barricade so he can't access the kitchen or his bedroom.” Carlos looks at the pile of chairs barring his way down the hallway and sighs. It's been a long week. There was as minor explosion at the lab, Cecil has been disturbingly quiet, and now he can't make dinner. 

“It's an experiment with modern art,” a disembodied voice says somewhere behind him, just out of sight. The absurdly youthful voice of the Faceless Old Woman. She doesn't have a mouth, Carlos thinks, and feels his eyebrow twitch. She shouldn't be able to talk. “It will be done tomorrow. I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be back so soon. Please still vote for me. Not Hiram McDaniels. He's literally a five-headed dragon.” 

“I told you I haven't decided about my vote yet,” Carlos says. He's not entirely sure if he's eligible to vote in the mayoral election. Cecil mentioned something worrying about bloodstone circles the last time Carlos brought it up. The Faceless Old Woman assumes a sulky air somewhere just beyond his peripheral vision. 

It's no good trying to get past the barricade. If he messes up her project, she'll light his bed on fire. Carlos walks back out of his rented house and gets into his car. 

Cecil doesn't have a Faceless Old Woman living in his apartment. Or an aspect of her, if there's only one Faceless Old Woman. Carlos doesn't really want to put too much time into thinking about it, he'll just get a headache. The point is, Carlos has had a bad week and he's hungry and he has a boyfriend with a fully-stocked kitchen. The solution is clear. 

Cecil answers the door with a confused look on his face, which instantly melts in happiness. “Carlos!” he says, and it gives Carlos a small thrill, all the way through his stomach, to hear someone say his name like that. But then Cecil says, “What are you doing here?” 

“The Faceless Old Woman who lives in my house blocked the kitchen,” Carlos says. “I thought I could make dinner for us.” 

Cecil bites his lip and glances over his shoulder, clearly at war with himself over something. Then he looks back at Carlos and seems to melt again. “Yes, of course,” he says, opening the door wider and stepping back. “Come in.” 

The apartment is cerulean blue today. The walls change color a lot. Cecil insists that he bought a special paint. Carlos likes it. It's like Night Vale in miniature—always changing, and never as terrifying as it first appears. He's stopped being surprised when he comes inside to find the walls a sparkling pink, or a deep green, or the creamy white of a cloud's underside.

But the people sitting in Cecil's living room are a surprise. They're all sitting in chairs in a semicircle, wearing very serious expressions. Carlos recognizes Old Woman Josie, of course, though it's very strange to see her without an Erika or two looming over her shoulder. There's also Larry Leroy, who lives out on the edge of town, and a preteen girl who Carlos takes a minute to place. She's Tamika Flynn, although she looks very different when she's not carrying a severed head. There is also a Hispanic boy in his middle teens, who Carlos has definitely never met before. 

“Carlos,” Cecil says. “This is my bowling team.” He places a hand on Carlos's shoulder and continues seriously, “You know Larry and Josie. This is Tamika. And that's Michael. He's Dana's little brother. Everyone, this is Carlos.” 

“We know who your scientist is,” Tamika says, sounding far more grizzled than an elementary school aged girl should.

“Hello,” Carlos says cautiously. “I didn't know you were about to go bowling. I'm sorry, I'll just stop by Arby's.” He turns to leave, but Cecil doesn't let go of his shoulder. 

“We aren't about to leave,” he says, puzzled. “There's a lot to be done before we begin to play. This is just a meeting.” 

“Okay,” Carlos agrees. He's never been on a bowling team. Maybe they have to pick out a name or the color of the shirts or something. “I'm going to make some food. Is everyone hungry?” 

There are murmurs of assent from Michael and Larry, so Carlos goes to poke around in Cecil's kitchen. As he's deciding if the tin marked FLAVOR FLAKES is safe to put in a batch of boxed au gratin potatoes, he hears arguing from the living room. 

“Not him!” Cecil is saying adamantly, angrily. Carlos doesn't know much that makes him get that tone. It's really only--“Steve Carlsberg comes nowhere near this!” 

Yep, it's pretty much only Steve Carlsberg. 

“He's ex-vague yet menacing government agency,” Old Woman Josie says. “And you know it, Cecil. We need him.” 

“Can't we bring him in closer to the end?” Michael asks. He's got a lilting voice, a little musical, sort of like Dana's. “I mean, we all know how Cecil feels.” 

“I'm sure we can work something out, son,” Larry Leroy adds. 

“No,” Cecil says woodenly. “No, he'll be an asset to the planning stages, Josie is right. Bring him in.” 

Carlos winces as he slides the potatoes into the oven in Cecil's bright blue casserole dish—it was white last time he was here—and wonders how seriously Cecil must take bowling, if he's going to let his nemesis onto the team. He also wonders how much planning bowling requires, really. 

Isn't it just throwing a heavy ball down a lane to knock over some pins? Why is everyone acting like they're going to war?

\-----

The Faceless Old Woman who lives in Carlos's house does not finish her art project. He comes home the next morning to find his walls coated in a gelatinous purple substance. He surveys his ruined bedroom wearily. 

“It's not going well,” says the Faceless Old Woman, somewhere to his left. “Not well at all.” She sounds testy. 

“This is going to keep happening,” Carlos surmises. 

“Yes,” the Faceless Old Woman admits. “Yes, probably. I have quite a lot of stress in my life right now, you know.” 

“I should move out for a little while,” Carlos says. It's not as if this wasn't in the lease. When he signed it, though, he was sure the clause about the Faceless Old Woman sometimes needing her own space was a joke. A prank of some sort. It took him a few months to realize that his particular Faceless Old Woman is very eccentric. 

“That might be best,” she agrees. There is a beat of silence, then she adds, “A vote for the Faceless Old Woman who lives in your house is a vote for someone who cares about art.” 

\-----

“Stay with me?” Cecil says in a hushed, awed voice. They're in the lab, late in the evening. Carlos asked Cecil to come by. “You want to stay with me? In the same space and everything?” 

“If it's not too much trouble,” Carlos says, wishing he had thought this through a little more. It's only been about two months, it's too soon to ask this sort of thing. He should have just gotten a hotel. He's going to ruin this relationship before it even gets off the ground, and then he'll just be a sad, lonely man with a laboratory who is steadily gaining a reputation as a crackpot in academic circles. 

“Trouble!” Cecil says, going pink with pleasure. “It's no trouble! I can't believe that you would want to stay with me! Of course you can!” 

“Thanks,” Carlos says, wondering if it's still appropriate to shake hands when it's your boyfriend offering a bed and a shower. “Thanks so much, Cecil, you're a lifesaver.” 

And it's probably bad, probably pretty egotistical, to be so pleased that Cecil has returned to his pre-relationship stage for a minute, a sort of blissed-out, dumbstruck look on his face. But after last night, when the bowling meeting went on for so long that Carlos just went to sleep without bothering to wait up for Cecil, it's nice to be reminded that his boyfriend really likes him. 

Loves him, actually, but Carlos isn't really ready for that kind of word yet, that kind of risk yet. Cecil has been very nice about not mentioning the whole love at first sight thing since they actually got together. 

“Oh,” Cecil says, soppy face vanishing abruptly. “My bowling team. It's a very important time for the league, Carlos, so I hope you don't mind that we'll be having meetings?” 

“Of course not,” Carlos says. They'll actually be at the bowling alley most of the time, anyway. And it's not like he has cause to complain. It's still Cecil's apartment. 

“Carlos,” Cecil breathes, happy again, and Carlos reaches out to hold Cecil's hand, and thinks, okay. Maybe the bottom isn't going to drop out. 

\----- 

The first time Carlos comes home—and isn't that strange, to call Cecil's apartment home—to find Steve Carlsberg sitting on the couch, he nearly faints in shock. It's only a minute later that he remembers Steve's impeccable record, which apparently qualifies him for a spot on the bowling team. 

The walls of the apartment are a shade of orange Carlos can only describe as “anger.” Cecil is sitting in his armchair, also anger orange, seething. His hands are curled into a clawlike shape, and he has a mutinous look on his face. 

Steve Carlsberg doesn't look any more comfortable, if the way he's shifting his enormous muscular frame on the couch is any indication. “Hello,” he says, waving slightly. “I heard you've moved in.” 

“Gossip monger,” Cecil mutters darkly from his corner. Old Woman Josie shoots a warning look in his direction. She's knitting something out of very pink yarn. Carlos just hopes it's not another sweater for Cecil. 

“Yes,” Carlos says, trying to ignore the bad vibes rolling off of Cecil. “Hello, everyone,” he says to the group at large. 

He debates going over to give Cecil a kiss—he wants to, and it might calm him down, but it's probably too late now, isn't it? To do it without looking weird?--and decides to just go ahead to the bedroom to get some work done. 

“I've got some journals to catch up on,” he tells Cecil, and Cecil's bowling team. “If you need me for anything, just shout.” 

While he's on his computer, trying to really assess the latest issues of Science and Nature, he keeps hearing snatches of conversation from the other room. Just little things. 

Like--

“--won't do any good, this isn't like anything we've seen yet--” 

and 

“--see how to go about making contact--” 

and then, finally, 

“--such a jerk!” from Cecil, and then a crash, and a sound like a breaking dish. Carlos sighs and minimizes his browser. 

By the time he gets to the living room, though, everyone is sitting down, calmly looking at each other. There are no broken dishes on the floor or anything. Everyone is just—looking at each other. Without moving or blinking. 

“Right,” Carlos says, edging away. “I'm just going to make some tea.” And he escapes into the kitchen. 

As he's waiting for the water to boil, Steve comes into the kitchen, ducking to fit his six-foot-four-inches under the doorframe. Normal conversation resumes in the living room. There's more noise, too, like they've turned the TV on.

“Sorry about that,” Steve says. 

“Not your fault, I'm sure,” Carlos says, getting down a mug and offering another to Steve, who nods. “Cecil isn't known for his rationality where you're concerned.” He puts a teabag into a mug just as the kettle starts to whistle. He pours water and hands Steve his mug. It's got flowers on it, and looks incongruous in Steve Carlsberg's mammoth hand. 

“It's hard for him, you know, having me around,” Steve says quietly. He takes a sip from his tea, even though it's still scalding hot and must still be mostly unflavored water. “Since the breakup and everything. He didn't take it well.” 

Carlos feels himself going cold, and busies himself pouring milk into his tea to hide it. That explains some things. He should have known. Steve Carlsberg is over twenty years older than Cecil, though. Carlos just never considered the possibility. 

“So it seems,” he says when it's clear Steve is expecting a response. “Why are you here, then? If it's so awkward.” 

Steve squares his shoulders and draws himself up to his full height. Carlos refuses to crane his neck to look up at this mountain of a man, even though that's apparently what Cecil is into. “This is bigger than me and Cecil,” he says. “This is bigger than all of us.” 

And he whirls around and strides heroically back into the living room, leaving Carlos with his tea and confusion. 

It's just bowling. 

\----- 

Carlos feels like he spends a lot of time hiding in the kitchen these days. 

It's not really true, he knows that. Most of the time everything is normal. He wakes up, goes for his morning jog, except now it's around Cecil's neighborhood instead of Grove Park. He goes to work, trying to unlock the mystery that is Night Vale, and only succeeding in giving himself more and more questions. 

He and Cecil still go to Big Rico's every Tuesday. And it's even better now that Carlos is staying with Cecil, because they have more time together. Cecil, as it turns out, goes introspective and hauntingly beautiful in the small hours of the morning, or just at twilight. 

“It's all so fragile,” he'll say, sitting out on the balcony at sunset, drinking a beer and watching the town. “We've got to fight just to keep the desert from taking back our insignificant toeholds in the sand.” 

And then Carlos has no choice but to reach out and touch him, just like he always wants to when Cecil does this through the radio. Only now, he actually gets to, instead of hemming and hawing and running away and thinking that Cecil is malevolent and dark. 

It hurts to think of that wasted year, when Carlos could have had this if he'd just let himself let go for a minute, let go of his beliefs about the logic of things and the way things are supposed to work. In Night Vale, there doesn't seem to be a supposed to. 

But that's when they're alone. When Cecil's bowling team is over, it's an entirely different story. 

Carlos steps out of the shower one Sunday morning to find Tamika sitting next to Cecil on the couch. Both of their attention is fixed on the TV. Neither even looks up when Carlos yelps and clutches his towel more tightly around his waist. 

“Like that—do you think you could learn to do that?” Cecil says, pointing to the TV. Tamika narrows her eyes at it. She's dressed for church, in a neat green dress, matching hat, and shiny Mary Janes. The television is showing an action scene of some kind, some martial arts movie where two men fly at each other with sticks, yelling poorly-dubbed threats. 

“I think so,” she says. She rubs her chin with one hand. “Yes, I could. If you can get me the space.” 

“Steve has a dojo in his house,” Cecil says. “Do you think you could get away long enough to practice?” 

“My mother thinks I'm at Girl Scouts,” Tamika says, rolling her eyes. “And that I'm at Sunday school right now.” 

“Good,” Cecil says. Carlos gives up and flees to the bedroom to get dressed. Cecil is contributing to the delinquency of a child now. Well, Carlos skipped Sunday school when he was that age. It happens. He's not sure why Tamika would need to learn martial arts for bowling, but maybe it's for strength training? It's fine. 

And he's not bothered by the way Cecil skipped Steve Carlsberg's last name when talking about him. He's not. Even if he's never heard Cecil do that before. 

So Carlos goes to the kitchen and makes pancakes, and before he's done the rest of the team shows up. Michael is carrying his backpack, which thuds ominously when he slings it onto the ground, but when he opens it it's full of schoolbooks. 

“I have to get my grades up,” he says, jaw set. “If I don't my mother will be suspicious. I'd have to stop being in the league at all.” He takes a plate of pancakes from Carlos, but doesn't look at him. He's looking at Cecil and Steve, who are standing against the wall.

“I know it's difficult,” Cecil says. “But this is important.” 

“You have to be brave,” Steve Carlsberg says, in his solid, booming voice, and Carlos wants to draw Cecil aside and maybe ask him why he never mentioned that he and Steve used to be a couple. But that's not appropriate. Cecil doesn't owe Carlos every detail of his life. 

“I'm not brave!” Michael bursts out, knocking his plate to the ground. Carlos sighs and starts looking for the broom. “I'm not brave like Dana was, okay!” 

Cecil has gone very still and very expressionless. “Like she is,” he corrects quietly. “She's not dead, Michael.” 

Michael snorts and crosses his arms, the picture of teenage anger. “Come on, Cecil,” he snarls. “Everyone knows she's gone. People don't come out of that station alive.” 

Carlos stops looking for the broom and just looks at Cecil, who has still not moved a muscle. His jaw is twitching, though, like he's gearing up to say something. 

Finally, he says, “None of us are brave like Dana is. But we can be brave enough to do this thing.” 

To become champions of the bowling league? Carlos still isn't sure if they ever go to to the bowling alley to practice. It's strange how seriously they're taking this for people that don't seem to have picked a team name yet. 

Tamika stops winding Josie's yarn into a ball and goes over to Michael. She wraps her tiny arms around his waist and leans against his side. She doesn't come up to his chest. She's a very small girl, Carlos notices. Not as big as she'd looked on the front page of the newspaper, leading children out of the smoking remains of the library. 

“We're the only ones who can do it,” Tamika says. “She's your sister. There has to be some of her in you.” 

Michael swallows hard. He puts a hand on top of Tamika's head, then looks at each of his teammates in turn. “Okay,” he says, kicking his backpack away. “I'm in this.” 

Cecil smiles victoriously, and catches Carlos's eye. Carlos smiles back, not sure if all these dramatics are really called for. 

That night, after the team has finally left, Carlos makes a suggestion.

“What if you got shirts?” he asks. Cecil is wearing just his jeans and undershirt, and has produced arm muscles from somewhere. Carlos vaguely recalls that Cecil's been working out lately, popping out of the apartment in basketball shorts and running shoes. He hadn't really thought to question it, but now he's busy trying to quash the suspicion that Cecil has been going to Steve Carlsberg's home dojo.

“Shirts?” Cecil asks, popping the cap off a bottle of beer. He turns, just slightly, and the dying rays of the sun catch his cheekbones in a miraculous way. 

“For the team,” Carlos says. “Like, with the team name on it. And your names sewn into the front pocket. Bowling shirts.” 

“Bowling shirts,” Cecil parrots, looking happy. “That's wonderful, Carlos! Shirts! I hadn't thought of that.” 

“Well,” Carlos says. It's not a very novel suggestion, but he's glad to have Cecil's full attention for once. “What's the team name, anyway?” 

“Our name,” Cecil intones, voice suddenly stark and horrible and promising great beauty, “is the Citizens of Night Vale.” 

That's not a very good name for a bowling team, Carlos thinks. But he keeps that to himself. 

\-----

The discovery that the stars above Night Vale are not the correct stars sends Carlos home early, staggering under the weight of the unknown. It's not even that they're at the wrong place for this time of year—those are entirely new constellations up there. 

One of the other researchers has started naming them, using stories from Night Vale history as a template. There's one called “soft meat crowns.” Carlos has rarely wanted to curl up with Cecil and shut the world out more than this moment. 

When he unlocks the door, though, the bowling team is there. Carlos wants to sag against the doorframe, but instead he smiles and says, “Hello, everyone.” 

They're wearing bowling shirts, one with golden yellow writing on black cloth. They've got "Citizens of Night Vale Official Bowling Team" written in gold on the back. Steve Carlsberg's stupid muscles are straining the seams of his, and Tamika looks like she's dressed up to go trick-or-treating. 

“Carlos,” Cecil says softly, “hello. You're back early.” 

“Yeah,” Carlos says. “Strange day at the lab. I'll get out of your hair, don't--” he waves vaguely, not sure what the gesture means, and starts to head towards the bedroom. 

“Wait,” Old Woman Josie says. Carlos waits, and Josie continues, “We need your help.” 

“Josie,” Cecil says. There's iron in his voice, a warning. Carlos tries not to be hurt by it. It's not that he doesn't understand having separate activities. Couples shouldn't spend all their time together. But maybe it would be nice if Cecil asked if he wanted to come bowling, too, some time. 

“We need a bigger team,” Michael says to Cecil, agreeing with Josie. “We're too small, Cecil, you know that.” 

“There are other people,” Steve Carlsberg says, glancing at Cecil with clear concern, making Carlos flash red. Cecil just sits there, not saying anything. 

He's trying to come up with something to say in response, maybe something about how Cecil just needs time with his friends, and anyway Carlos doesn't really like going to the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex since the incident with the miniature city under the pin retrieval area, when the doorbell rings. 

Everyone goes very still. The bowling team exchanges significant glances. Then, Cecil stands and says, “Okay,” in a voice that is trying very hard to be brave. Carlos starts to sweat. It means something, in Night Vale, when the doorbell rings. He pictures the sheriff's secret police out in the hallway, waiting for Cecil. What did he say on the radio today? 

But Cecil's broadcasts have been so cheerful lately, praising StrexCorp and all its doings. He hasn't questioned the city council in weeks, hasn't so much as mentioned the dog park. 

Cecil opens the door. A man in a tan jacket, carrying a deerskin suitcase which is buzzing with flies, steps inside. The apartment's walls shift from deep black to an ecstatic green. 

“I've come to help,” the man says, in a voice which slides through Carlos's mind like a knife through butter. 

Cecil looks at the Man in the Tan Jacket and says, “We could use someone like you.” He offers his hand to shake, and Tamika Flynn cheers when the Man in the Tan Jacket takes it. 

\-----

The first time the team actually goes bowling, Cecil invites Carlos along. “We're playing against a team from Desert Bluffs,” he explains, his face screwing up in distaste. “It's taken this long to get a message to them, and for them to respond. They're coming to the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex tonight.” 

“Sure,” Carlos says, restraining himself. It wouldn't be normal to grin like a lunatic. He's giving Cecil enough space, not clinging, doing all the things the internet advice columns have assured him are correct. “That would be fun.” 

It's sort of awful to be back in the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, honestly. Carlos keeps remembering what it was like to be picked up by the Apache Tracker, to get wounded by the army of the miniature city. But Cecil is excited, in a grim sort of way, so Carlos isn't going to spoil it .

He sits in one of the hard plastic chairs at Cecil's lane and tries not to look over at the team from Desert Bluffs. Cecil's double is among them, but looking at him makes Carlos shudder. There's something awful about him, but Carlos can't put a finger on whether it's his perpetually cheery smile or his void, horrible eyes. 

“Look,” he says, halfway through the second game. He has been declared scorekeeper, along with a woman who appears to be some kind of gender-bent Carlos, judging from the way she looks exactly like his sister Maggie. He offers Cecil the scoresheet from the other team. “They keep getting the same thing.” 

It's not really visible until the scores are all added up, because the difference between the first and second balls differ. But the Desert Bluffs team is definitely bowling in a pattern—a rhythm of seven, three, zero, four, and six, followed by a strike, before the numbers repeat. 

Cecil studies the list of numbers for a minute before he breathes, “Brilliant,” and jumps up to take his turn. 

Carlos isn't sure it's really that brilliant. They're going to lose to Night Vale, for one. The Man in the Tan Jacket is getting nothing but strikes. 

\-----

After that first game, the team keeps growing. Carlos comes home one day to find five expressionless men and women, and a man wearing a cloak, balaclava, and hat like the Pope in the living room. There are five more balaclavas lying on the coffee table. 

Carlos very calmly stares at Cecil, then goes to the kitchen. Cecil comes trailing in after him, wearing a sheepish expression. 

“Why is the Sheriff sitting in the living room drinking tea?” Carlos asks. Cecil looks at the floor, the ceiling, and finally at Carlos. 

“He's interested in bowling,” Cecil says firmly. “Not that he's ever tried bowling before, but he's very enthusiastic. And we need every ally we can get.” 

“They have every house in this town bugged,” Carlos hisses, and Cecil just looks confused. 

“They have a very strong work ethic,” he says. Carlos has never been on the same page as Cecil about the casual government-sanctioned invasion of privacy in Night Vale. Cecil has always seemed to applaud the Sheriff's secret police. 

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose and feels abruptly tired. “It's Tuesday,” he says, fighting off the bone-deep exhaustion. “When do you want to leave for Big Rico's?” 

Cecil's mouth drops open briefly, and then he assumes a stricken expression. “I'm afraid, dear Carlos, that I have to cancel. I have something very important to do tonight.” 

“Something very important,” Carlos echoes, not sure what he's hearing. “But we always go to Big Rico's on Tuesdays.” This is it, the beginning of the end. It starts with a bowling team and canceled dates and ends with Cecil realizing that Carlos is just some guy, albeit one with great hair. And then Cecil rides off into the sunset with Steve Carlsberg and his muscles. 

And Carlos is left here, with a lab and enough interesting things to fill the rest of his life, and the knowledge that it's not enough anymore, now that he knows what it's like to have Cecil asleep next to him in the glow of the bright moon, and the mysterious lights which float overhead. 

No, Carlos thinks. This is literally just one date, and Cecil still hates Steve, and anyway Cecil is in love with Carlos. Carlos needs to stop reading gay dating articles, Dan Savage is a menace.

“Okay,” Carlos says. “We can just go tomorrow.” 

Cecil presses forward and kisses Carlos, and Carlos closes his eyes and thinks, soon. Soon he'll be able to say that he loves Cecil, too. 

\-----

Carlos wakes up in the dead of night to his phone ringing shrilly. He picks it up and says, “Hello?”

“Carlos, I need you to come pick us up,” Cecil whispers urgently, and suddenly Carlos is no longer groggy. He reaches for his glasses and puts them on. 

“Where are you?” he asks. Who's “us?” for that matter? 

“The Sand Wastes,” Cecil says. “Out past the cactus that looks like a man twisted by heartbreak. Thank you, Carlos. Bring sandwiches.” And he's gone, has hung up. 

Carlos makes sandwiches, and a pot of coffee for good measure, which he pours into Cecil's unnecessarily large Thermos. Carlos drives to the Sand Wastes. Carlos sees the cactus that looks like a man twisted by heartbreak, and keeps driving. He stops when he sees three silhouettes against his headlights. 

Cecil and Steve Carlsberg have a third person propped up between them, a slumped-over pale man wearing a headdress made of artificial feathers from a craft store. It's the Apache Tracker, Carlos realizes as Cecil opens the back door of the car and settles him inside. Steve Carlsberg sits in the back, too, hunched over and looking worriedly down at the Apache Tracker. He's barely conscious, eyes fluttering, and moaning in Russian. 

“The sandwiches are there,” Carlos says when Cecil is in the car, clutching a camouflage backpack to his chest. He indicates the brown paper bag on the floor of the passenger's side. “And there's coffee.” 

“You're a genius,” Cecil says, one of those casual compliments that still take Carlos by surprise, and passes the food and drink back to Steve. Steve props the Apache Tracker up and holds the coffee for him. 

Carlos turns around and starts the drive back to town, carefully tamping down on his panic. “Isn't he dead?” Carlos asks, and wonders what his life has become that this is a sentence he's now said. “I mean, I'm pretty sure he was dead.” 

“We brought him back,” Cecil says. “And I know what you're thinking, Carlos, believe me. I've thought it, too. Why would we bend the fabric of life and death and put ourselves in debt to the Grim Reaper for such a racist asshole?” 

That is not even remotely what Carlos was thinking. 

“It was a difficult decision,” Cecil continues. “But we decided, we took a vote. The Apache Tracker may be a real jerk, but he's also proved himself against the miniature city. And we thought he might come in handy when we try to make contact with their leaders.” 

“Oh,” Carlos says, letting it sink in. If he accepts the power to reverse death as given, the rest makes a strange sort of sense. Then he lets the rest of Cecil's explanation sink in. “When you what now with the miniature city?” 

\-----

It turns out that Cecil wasn't joking. The Apache Tracker is deployed to make contact with the city, and things continue mostly as normal, except for a bizarre amount of disappearances. The yellow helicopters can be seen circling over the town center at nearly all hours of the day, now. Cecil doesn't seem concerned, dodges Carlos's questions about all of it on his way out the door. 

And there's the newfound closeness between Cecil and Steve. It's like that night in the desert—the night Cecil skipped pizza night to raise someone from the dead—changed something. Cecil no longer glowers when Steve walks in the door. He doesn't smile, either, and Carlos takes comfort from that, but still. He doesn't glower. 

It's not like Carlos isn't friends with his exes, though. None of them live in Night Vale, but that's beside the point. He's being crazy and jealous. 

Carlos is listening to Cecil's broadcast in the lab one day when Cecil says something unexpected. 

_It appears, happy citizens, that Poetry Week has been cancelled_ , Cecil says, and from outside Carlos's lab there starts an unearthly howling. The howling rises in pitch and fervor, until Carlos has to shut all his windows and hunker under his desk, trembling and unsure. 

_I know this may cause some amount of dismay_ , Cecil continues on the radio, heedless of the chaos he has caused, _but I believe that the decision to cancel Poetry Week will aid our little town in productivity! Just remember, the generous StrexCorp has made this decision in order to help us grow!_

The howling abruptly ends, like someone has hit the mute button on the world. 

_Look inside you: Strex_ , Cecil says. Carlos turns off the radio. 

\-----

The team meeting that night is tense. Carlos sits in the corner, reading and munching on hummus and pita chips. The number of Sheriff's secret police have swelled to twelve, and people are having a hard time fitting into the apartment, although it does seem to swell in size whenever there are more than three visitors. 

The walls are blue, but bleeding down drips of red. Carlos doesn't know what that color means. 

“We need more time,” the Sheriff is arguing. 

Old Woman Josie is knitting placidly, but she says, “We don't have time, imbecile. The angels aren't coming back anytime soon, and I'm running out of juice.” 

In the back of the room, Larry Leroy starts weeping. “Angels aren't real,” he says quietly. 

“I still think--” the Sheriff says, and stops as there is a knock on the door. Carlos puts down his book and tries not to give in to the trickle of ice making its way down his spine. 

It's not the secret police. The secret police are here already. 

Cecil stands and goes to the door. Is it just Carlos, or is he moving slower than normal? Before Cecil can open it, the door swings open of its own volition. 

Tamika gives a small scream before she clamps her hand over her mouth. Cecil recoils. Carlos falls back into the recurring nightmares from his first, and only, trip to the Night Vale Public Library.

There are three librarians in the hallway. They glide into the room, claws extended, and loom in the center of the room. The tallest of the three opens its terrible jaws and says in a voice like the darkest parts of a cave, “They have gone too far.” 

Cecil closes the door and yelps, “Bowling!” Carlos wants to reach out and grab him, hide him from the librarians' line of sight. But Cecil just stands there as the librarians swing their focus onto him. “Bowling,” he repeats. 

The tallest librarian cocks its head to the side. “We have come,” it says, “to join your bowling team.” 

Tamika stands up and stalks out onto the balcony. Michael stands to go after her, but Carlos stops him. “Let me,” he says. Michael sits back down, but keeps his eye on the sliding door leading out to the balcony. Tamika is sitting, hunched over, looking tiny. 

Carlos closes the door after himself and sits down next to her. “You don't have to be on the team if they're going to make you uncomfortable,” he says gently. Tamika won't look at him. “Nobody is going to think any less of you.” 

For a minute, Tamika is silent. She props her chin on her knees and stares out over the town. The lights above the Arby's are visible even from here, shining brilliantly in the dark. There are no stars tonight. 

“No,” Tamika says finally. “It's—it's bigger than me. It's bigger than all of us. And librarians--” she stops, shuddering, and then continues, “librarians are strong. They'll be useful. I can do this.” 

“It's just bowling, Tamika,” Carlos says gently, and Tamika stares at him like he's an idiot. 

“It's everything that we care about,” Tamika says. “Everything that means anything. So I can do this.” She stands up, takes a deep breath, and goes back inside. 

Carlos stays outside, looking out at Night Vale, and decides to go visit the Faceless Old Woman tomorrow. 

\-----

The house is beautiful. The walls have been covered with murals so lifelike Carlos actually feels like he's on a mountaintop, or in a busy South American marketplace. The fact that all the people have been replaced with beluga whales does nothing to limit the effect. 

“It's wonderful,” he tells the Faceless Old Woman who lives in his house. “Really. Stunning.” 

“Oh, it's nothing, really,” she says, blushing, although he isn't sure how he knows that. Can she blush without a face? “Just something to help relieve the stress of the campaign.” 

“So I can move back in?” Carlos asks, just to be sure. 

“As soon as the last of the bedroom dries,” the Faceless Old Woman confirms. “Tomorrow should be fine.” 

Tomorrow. Carlos breathes out, slowly. Now he just has to tell Cecil. 

Well, it's Tuesday. He'll just tell him at Big Rico's. 

\-----

At eight o'clock, Carlos gives up. He puts half the pizza in a box and drives back to Cecil's apartment, where he starts packing. It takes longer than it should, to sort his clothes out from Cecil's. When he's done, he watches TV aimlessly. 

Cecil stumbles in at a quarter to midnight. His hair is a mess, and he leans against the door after he closes it.

“It's pretty late,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even. He doesn't say, Were you with Steve? But he can't help thinking it. 

“Carlos!” Cecil exclaims, eyes widening. “I thought you would be asleep.” 

“I was packing,” Carlos says. “The Faceless Old Woman says I can move back in. Your pizza is in the fridge.” 

He watches Cecil come to the realization, first confused, then guilty, and finally heartbroken. “Oh no,” he says. “I've disappointed you. I'm so sorry, Carlos, but I've got such good news! Steve and I spent half the night convincing him, but Hiram McDaniels has agreed to be on the bowling team! And the tournament starts tomorrow!” 

“You were getting more people for your bowling team,” Carlos says. Of course. That makes sense. Cecil has barely had time for Carlos, lately. Too wrapped up in his bowling. “Listen, Cecil,” he says, aware as he's doing it that this is going to hurt terribly. “I think we should take a break.” 

“A break?” Cecil says, tilting his head to the side. Like he doesn't understand, like he's never heard of the concept. 

“I like you a lot,” Carlos says. “But I think we might be in different places. You're very concerned with bowling right now.” And with Steve Carlsberg, who has gone from dreaded enemy to best friend in just a few months. 

“You want to break up,” Cecil says woodenly. Carlos panics for a minute, wants to take the words back. But he's got self esteem. He's not going to wait until Cecil tells him to get out. He's always been good at making an exit. 

“I guess,” Carlos says. “I hope we can still be friends.” They won't be. Cecil is looking at him like Carlos has torn out his heart and is shredding it in front of his eyes. But that might be better, for Cecil. That's something they do in Night Vale. 

Cecil doesn't say a word as Carlos goes to get his bag. He doesn't say a word as Carlos leaves the apartment. And it's selfish and stupid, but Carlos wishes he had tried a little. 

\-----

The next day is awful. 

Carlos wakes up reaching out, and it isn't until his hand hits the cold left side of the bed that he remembers. No Cecil. And it's his own fault. He overreacted, took his own jealousy and mixed it up with a few mistakes. Carlos has never been good at relationships, but this takes the cake. 

The day continues to be awful at the lab. Four of his team have disappeared into the yellow helicopters. The others are afraid, jumpy, or worse: wearing that same smile that Cecil's double had at the bowling match. 

More and more people are sporting that smile on the street every day. 

Around noon, his phone rings. Carlos scrambles to answer it, hoping it's Cecil. He's disappointed. 

“Hey, Carlos,” says a harassed-sounding Steve Carlsberg. “I know you wanted to stay out of this, but we could really use your help right about now.” There's a sound in the background like a car backfiring. “Could you meet us outside the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex with your car?” 

“Okay,” Carlos says, but it's to dead air. He tells his team he's going to lunch—something about the way they're smiling won't let him say what's really happening. 

Steve and the Apache Tracker come running out of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex just as Carlos pulls into the parking lot. The Apache Tracker is holding a large cardboard box. Steve is holding onto his own left shoulder, and he's stark white. 

“What's going on?” Carlos asks as Steve throws himself into shotgun. 

“Drive,” Steve says through gritted teeth. When he takes his hand away from his shoulder, it's wet with blood. “Avoid the helicopters.” 

“What the hell!” Carlos yelps. He jerks the steering wheel as a yellow helicopter appears in the distance. “What the hell happened?” 

“We got the army out,” Steve says. “In the box.” 

Realization dawns immediately. Carlos would be worried about how quickly that happened, but he's been in Night Vale for a long time. “The miniature city,” he guesses. “That's who's in the box.” 

“Go to Josie's,” Steve says. “Erika came back last night, they won't be able to find us there. Long enough to get patched up, anyway.” 

Carlos changes direction and heads for the Ralph's, and Old Woman Josie's house. “What the hell is going on,” he asks again, but Steve doesn't seem to hear him. 

Old Woman Josie is on the porch. When Carlos pulls into the driveway, she's at the door of the car in seconds. 

“Get inside,” she barks, and supports Steve as he limps into the house. The Apache Tracker is quick to follow, jogging with his box full of tiny soldiers. 

Old Woman Josie lays Steve out on the kitchen table. “What did they get you with?” she asks as she cuts Steve's shirt away. 

“Blowdart,” he says. “But I think it exploded once it hit, it feels like shrapnel.” 

Carlos just stands there, in the kitchen, not sure what's going on or who shot Steve, or why. It has something to do with the yellow helicopters, something to do with StrexCorp, and something to do with Cecil's bowling team. 

Carlos watches Old Woman Josie apply a fairly good field dressing to Steve's wound before she gives him a pill that makes him sleep immediately. “He'll be up in an hour,” she says, flexing her arthritic hands. “Speeds the healing process. Erika showed me how to make them.” 

Steve looks very peaceful when he's been knocked unconscious. “He's okay?” he asks, not able to help it. Old Woman Josie just nods. “Cecil will be glad. They've been getting so close.” 

Old Woman Josie sends him a strange look. “Well, there's a lot of history there.” 

“I know,” Carlos says, not able to stop himself from sounding like a bitter harridan. “But they haven't been since the breakup, right?” 

Old Woman Josie eases back into one of the kitchen chairs. The Apache Tracker has disappeared with the miniature army. “Well, it's hard, when it's your parents.” 

Carlos is sure he's heard wrong. “What?” he says. 

Old Woman Josie squints at him. “Steve and Cecil's mother were together for about fifteen years. It was hard on Cecil when his stepdad called it quits, for all that he was in college. Between you and me, I think he blames Steve for his mother's walkabout.” 

“Her walkabout? Isn't she dead?” Carlos blurts. It's not that Cecil's ever said that his mother is dead, but the way he goes quiet and sad when she gets brought up—Carlos read between the lines. 

“She went to find herself,” Old Woman Josie says, shrugging. “Like that movie with Julia Roberts. I think she's in Thailand right now.” 

Carlos sits down, hard. Suddenly everything, from the shared looks to the forgotten hatred, looks different. Steve was Cecil's father, or nearly. “And it's not really a bowling team, is it?” he asks quietly. 

Old Woman Josie reaches across Steve's prone body and pats his hand. “You're really terrible at this, aren't you? Cecil was so sure you knew what was really going on but didn't want to be involved, and he didn't want you hurt anyway. I wondered if he was right.” 

“You're destroying StrexCorp, aren't you?” Carlos asks, knowing the answer already. It's like Newspeak, sometimes, in Night Vale. Plastic bags and feral dogs, bowling teams that are really rebel alliances. 

“Driving them out,” Old Woman Josie says. “Weakening them enough that our allies in Desert Bluffs have a fighting chance of finishing the job. They're ready to go when we give the signal.” 

Carlos puts his head in his hands and runs over the last few months. Tamika working with the librarians, the way the Sheriff and his secret police showed up just as the disappearances started happening. Cecil putting priority over Carlos. 

“The code the Desert Bluffs team sent?” he asks, sound muffled by his palms. 

“Storage locker,” Josie says calmly. “With a map to the location of the Apache Tracker's body. They knew the miniature city would come in handy. Their boy king is very superstitious, apparently, so a slain enemy was the best envoy we could come up with.” 

“Okay,” Carlos says, processing. When he looks up, he only asks, “What can I do?” 

“Oh, good,” Josie says. “You're actually quite crucial to the plan, you know, though we had to hide that from Cecil. You're the getaway driver.” 

\-----

As Carlos is driving the van away from the smoldering remains of the StrexCorp building—Hiram McDaniels is still gleefully flaming at the wreckage in his rearview mirror—he does his best not to meet Cecil's eyes. 

It's not difficult. Cecil is looking anywhere but at him. And there's enough to keep him busy--Tamika is riding shotgun, and she seems to be admiring her own wounds. “These are going to scar really good,” she tells Carlos. 

“Really well,” he corrects, and winces. This is his life. He is driving away from a five-headed dragon, whose mayoral campaign is probably going to pick up nicely after this, correcting a child on the grammar of scarring. While his boyfriend—hopefully still his boyfriend—refuses to look at him. 

Carlos takes the long way around town, so that he arrives at Cecil's apartment last. Everyone else has already been dropped off. In the far distance, something that looks disturbingly like a mushroom cloud is rising, near where Desert Bluffs must be. 

“I'm sorry,” Carlos says before Cecil can get out. “I thought—I didn't realize what you were doing. I thought it was really a bowling team.” 

Cecil is looking at him incredulously. “I said I was perfectly lovely,” he says.

“That—that doesn't mean the same thing, I guess, outside of Night Vale,” Carlos tries to explain. “So I thought. That you'd been distant over bowling, actual bowling. Not over this. I would have understood if it were this. I would have helped.” 

“So,” Cecil says, something like hope rising like a nuclear explosion over his face, “you don't really want to break up?” 

Carlos thinks about all those articles he's read, the ones that would tell him how to be smooth in this moment, how to be cool. “I thought we could go bowling, and then go home,” he says, hoping it's right, not sure if it is. 

And Cecil says, “Carlos,” like it's the answer to everything. 


End file.
